Tear in My Heart
by shipeverythingandanything
Summary: Sebastian Moran is living an ordinary life- or as ordinary as life can get when you're part sniper, part kitchenware shop owner until Jim Moriarty walks in with an offer. This is basically the story of Sherlock and pre-Sherlock from Moriarty and Moran's perspective with perspectives from other underdeveloped characters as the fic goes along.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: I normally don't do Sherlock fic but then I read an amazing fic with Moran in it and I decided I would write my own... Hopefully this turned out well ^ ^ Thanks to AverageScript for the beta!_

If Sebastian Moran considered himself 'ordinary' enough to have a hobby, he would consider his to be cleaning. It was funny, because not many people picture one of the most dangerous and prestigious assassins in the world to be sweeping his flat between jobs, but it was true. He liked being neat.

Especially with knives.

He didn't much like killing with knives. Stabbings were too messy and easy to fuck up. Stabbings involved close contact, and screams. But he liked cleaning them- knives, that is. He didn't so much like cleaning the scene of crime up- he would have to wipe everything, from the floor to the light bulbs just in case there were prints. That was much harder. Knives were difficult objects, designed to cut but hard to use properly.

What he liked about knives was wiping away the blood, making sure there weren't any dark splotches that could give him away. He craved seeing the contrast between the stained, red metal and the shiny, almost mirror-like blade- the end product. He enjoyed making sure the blade wouldn't get dull from contact with the rough sponge; the way the blood would flush down the drain to be dissolved by other, unidentifiable cleansing liquids down in the sewers so there was no way he would get caught. It was almost beautiful.

That was probably why he opened a knife-sharpening and kitchenware shop in the heart of London. It was almost laughable how easily he got the spot. It was also ridiculous how many murderers and outlaws visited to buy their pots and pans and also went into the back of the shop to talk to him about the disposal of some incriminating piece of evidence.

Two months later, he bought out the entire space flat out- it looked bad when you had to turn down a job because your rent was due that day, he soon found out. And no matter how often it happened, it never failed to be funny whenever an infamous sharpshooter had to wait in line behind a little old lady or a soccer mom to buy a cutting board.

Ironically, the business conducted in the main shop was entirely legal. He paid his rent for the first two months, he hired employees, though they were mostly ex-cons trying to get their life back together, (Sebastian had offered them jobs on the premise that as long as they wouldn't get involved in business conducted at the back of his shop, they could get employee discounts as well as a recommendation to put on their resumes) and would call the police on shoplifters.

Everything was going perfectly. Or, as perfectly as it could go for an assassin playing marketplace.

Until Moriarty fucked it all up.

It was a perfectly nice Thursday. (Why did _everything_ have to go wrong on Thursdays?) He was just about to close up shop when a man walked in.

The man was attractive, wearing a very nice expensive suit. He didn't have the look of an ordinary man out searching for the perfect tart pan. Sebastian looked up from his position behind a counter.

"Hello," he said.

The man nodded in return.

"We're about to close up soon. If you'd like to make a purchase, is it possible you can wait until tomorrow?" Obviously, he wasn't here for a dish, but keeping up pretenses was important.

"I have an offer," the man said. _(Irish, Moran noted.)_

"Oh?" he asked.

"Do you have security cameras here?"

"Wouldn't do me much good would it?" That much was true. He could catch anyone he needed if they took anything from him. Although, if the police investigated the shop it would all go downhill if they stumbled upon any criminal activity, which happened frequently.

"Good man. Shall we talk in the back?"

"You've heard about me, then," he noted out loud.

"The number of patrons that I've sent to your store here might surprise you."

"The right answer would be _yes_ , then."

The man looked surprised by this response- maybe he wasn't used to people talking back to him?- but quickly composed himself.

"The name's Moriarty," he said. Moran grinned. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I'm Moran. Let's talk business, shall we?"

One week, 2 days and 5 hours later, Moriarty positioned himself outside a bar.

"So, old friend!" he chuckled, slapping a complete stranger on the back. He was drunk, their target was, and Jim was faking a proper Londoner accent for this job.

"Do…I know you?" he slurred out. This was getting easier and easier.

"Course! Sam, old man, how're you doing these days?" Sam was actually a millionaire with a huge company whose main business seemed to be with oil diggers. Sam's company would chop down the trees and dig up the dirt for the diggers to get a clean drill and one of Moriarty's clients wanted him dead.

"I-I, uh, I don't know. Did I ever tell you- who are you again?"

"I'm Tom! Don't tell me that you don't remember me!"

"Ah, Tom! Good to see you again. Did I ever tell you that- (here he dropped his voice into a comically loud whisper)- _I think there are people out to get me._ "

Jim choked back a laugh. "Really? You mean, like, assassins?"

"Yeah, yeah." The man nodded vigorously. "So, _so_ glad I can trust you, Tom."

A lesser man would have given up the game. Jim Moriarty was not a lesser man.

"Course, course, Sam. Let's get you home, then." _Home, where Moran is in the building across the street with a rifle._

They called a cab.

Fifteen minutes later the man was lying on the floor, blood dripping out of his skull and onto the carpet. Moran was next to Jim, admiring his handiwork.

"That was a very good shot," Jim said, dropping the accent.

"Mm," Moran agreed. "Could be a bit cleaner, but it was hard to get a good angle. Had to account for the window and all."

"I thought it was brilliant."

"You really think?"

"Yeah, yeah. No way I could've done that."

"No offense, but I can't really picture you shooting anything."

"I operate from the background."

"Clearly not this time. Can I ask you something?"

"Depends." Jim was now mixing himself a drink from the dead man's cabinet.

"You said that a big percentage of my clientele came from you."

"Something like that, yeah. Have a drink?"

"Just a glass. So why'd you show up in person this time?"

"I got interested."

"You did, did you?"

They were now about three inches apart. _God, no, he couldn't do this_. He was supposed to be detached. Apart. Separate from everyone. No. Relationships. With. Anyone.

"Yeah. Heard all sorts of things, thought I'd see you for myself."

Five centimeters, now, at most. How had he never noticed how fucking _pretty_ Sebastian's eyes were? He'd never truly appreciated brown eyes until now. When did he start thinking about him on a first name basis? Oh, god, this is why he never got into relationships. Fucked up the whole business. Once you start caring, you have a weak spot.

"So, what do you think of me now that you've seen me?"

Jim's senses were dulled, and at that moment he couldn't think about anything except for _dear god, what's gotten into me- but, his lips, no- his eyes, stop it, stop stop stop_. _Get a grip on yourself. Even his hair is perfect_ \- _why didn't I visit him in person earlier, he's fucking_ gorgeous _\- stop it- you're just putting him in danger- but he's a sniper, he's always in danger, I won't change that- you'll put him in more danger, this is why you do business through proxies, but his lips- and his eyes- his hair, stop it-_

His thoughts were quickly blotted out when his lips met Sebastian's.

He never knew a pair of lips could feel so soft, so good against his own or that hair could feel so good when it was tangled up in his fingertips, and, oh, _Jesus_ , what was Sebastian doing with his tongue? He heard a moan and realized that it had come from him. _Since when was he this…_ what was the word… _vulnerable? Obsessed?_

They pulled apart for air. For a second, Jim became very, very scared. He had just let down a huge barrier. He was now weaker. More susceptible. If Moran were to strike, he would have no defense. _This_ was why he didn't carry out operations firsthand or why he didn't let himself be in relationships.

"Look at us," Moran murmured, smile playing on his lips. "Making out in a dead man's apartment. May I point out, the dead man that _we_ killed."

Jim's relief was almost instantaneous. "You make it sound so dirty," he breathed.

Miles away, Sherlock Holmes solved a bank robbery in five minutes, confounding the police with his (scarily accurate) deduction skills.

In Afghanistan, John Watson was in his bed, the sound of bullets still ringing in his ears.

Moriarty and Moran were in a dead man's flat, on top of the world.


	2. Chapter 2

When she was in Year 8, Irene Adler found out that she liked girls.

The first was Kiara. She might have been a model if she hadn't wanted to be a physicist. She was thin and tall, had long legs that could have made her famous and dark skin that glittered. She pulled off heels like nobody's business and did her makeup like an artist. Everything about her was angles and perfection- her eyeliner, her cheekbones, her clothes… Of course, Kiara was straight as one of those metal rulers that snapped when you tried to bend them.

When she confirmed that yes, she very much did like girls, she went home and told her parents about this beautiful girl, this girl that she had a crush on.

"Mum, I think I'm in love," she had said. She had been so naïve to think that her confession would go smoothly.

Her mum asked ' _what's his name?'_ and she said: _her name is Kiara_.

Her mother had looked really concerned, then, and asked her why.

When she said that it was because Kiara was really, truly the most beautiful girl in the world and she was smart and _she was so wonderful, mum_ her mother looked sort of sad.

 _"_ _It's just a phase, sweetie."_

Ever since then, she had never been her parents' favorite child.

In hopes of winning them back, she improved her grades. She got top marks of her class. Still, there was that awkward silence at the table when good-intentioned Uncle Gary asked about a boy. It wasn't the ' _she's gay, Gary_ ' sort of awkward silence, it was the ' _what are you going to tell him, Irene?_ ' sort of disgraceful, glaring, empty silence.

So she rebelled. She took extra credit classes, did afterschool clubs and was the most perfect daughter one could ever wish for- all while carrying a trophy girlfriend on her arm. She set some limitations- she had to be attractive, and had to be not obviously gay. She set the second one after her mother commented that _that Rhea girl doesn't look very nice. I don't want you talking to her._

At first it was Nadia, who was sweet as she was pretty. Then it was Susanna, who resembled Kiara in body but was different in every other aspect. After that, Valentina, who wasn't conventionally attractive but beautiful in her own way, and then Claire, who was a bleached blonde cheerleader and in her experimental phase, as she called it.

She never really talked about her dates and never brought any home, so the rest of the Adler family tried their best to ignore the elephant in the room, focusing on the grades instead. What parents wouldn't be proud?

In her 11th year, she had a girlfriend who wanted to be a writer- Aliyah. She was smart, cute, and everything she ever wanted in life, not just a pretty face or a fun personality.

The Adler family was not a happy one the day she announced it.

She didn't know why she bothered.

Maybe because she truly loved this girl, and hoped that they had finally given up on making their daughter straight.

The summer before she went to uni, she went into pornography. That alone showed how well the Aliyah conversation had went. She had gotten into Cambridge but needed a way to pay off rent and loans. Her father called her a whore.

Irene Adler also was freakishly smart. She found early on that she noticed things no one else did. She never pointed them out, only kept them to herself. For instance, the man kneeling in front of her riding crop currently had a wife and at least one, probably two young kids. His left hand had the indentation of a wedding ring. The indentation was pretty deep, so they had been married for a while. There were traces of muscle, so he had been working out but something was stopping him. It couldn't be work because he must've been keeping an office job for years and this appeared to be fairly recent. So kids, then. He was also one of the top members of Parliament.

Not that she would tell him any of that.

The man moaned, and she gave him a light tap on the rear with the crop.

She pulled out her phone and snapped a couple pictures of the man. Not that she would need them. But just in case. She checked the clock.

"Looks like our time is done, then," she said. "Same time next week?"

After he left, Irene took a shower before her girlfriend got home.

Said girlfriend, Clara, had a more typical office job in the heart of London. She had been looking for a roommate after her previous wife, Hayley or Hannah or Harriet or something started drinking. They broke up and Irene swept her up. For now, they were dating.

Honestly, Irene couldn't believe her good luck sometimes.

Clara was adorable, petite, cuddly and sweet. Compared to Irene's height and confidence, they made an odd couple, sure, but it was perfect. How or why Hayley/Hannah/Harriet started drinking she couldn't guess.

Someone knocked on the door. Irene wrapped herself in a towel and walked downstairs.

"Clara?" she called. "That you?"

She soon found out that the young woman at her doorstep was the sister of one of her previous clients, a member of the royal family. The Queen's niece, to be exact. So, not Clara.

"Oh! I'm so sorry for intruding…" the niece murmured.

It occurred to Irene then that ordinary people are the most pathetic sort of people. _I took nude pictures of her sister and yet she's apologizing for intruding in on me in a towel. What has the world come to?_

"I believe you, er, took some pictures of her?" the girl stammered out. Oh, that was adorable. Most of her customers would be too embarrassed or ashamed to tell their family, which is why they would come back here with their tail between their legs, begging her to delete the photos. Of course she never leaked them, but it was good to have leverage. It had come in handy several times, with members of Parliament. That was half of why she still kept up the business, even: there was more than plenty of blackmail material to go around, and the reactions of her clients were truly hilarious. The other half was that the money was too good to refuse.

Irene smiled politely. "Did I? Please, come in, and wait here while I get changed."

She came back wearing jeans and a t-shirt that advertised a dentist.

"Sorry, I'm back now. What were we talking about?"

"She, uh, she told me that you...took photographs of her. Sarah, that is. She was one of your…patrons."

Irene feigned surprise. "She told you what?"

"That you took pictures of her in compromising positions," the woman said, eyes cast. She gave a polite cough and her face turned three shades of pink darker. "And we were wondering if you could dispose of them, or return them to us."

"Ah!" Irene said, as if _that_ was the thing that cleared it all up. But this was absolutely hilarious. "That. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to do that for you."

"Well- why not?"

"Because _I_ need them. Also, who knows what hands they might get in to? No, they're safer with me either way."

"Why…"

 _Honestly, what was her plan?_ Irene mused. _Did she honestly think that I would just hand them over?_

"Because I might need them. Leverage, you know." Better to be flat-out honest and get it over with.

The woman's tone changed almost instantly, as did the color of her face (light pink to beet purple). "You… _bitch_! You _whore_!"

If those were the worst insults Irene had come across, Firefly had a season 2. Almost every returning patron had called her a whore, and she was called a bitch almost daily. _Why won't anybody come up with something more creative?_

"Really? Me? A whore? I'm shocked you could come to that conclusion!"

A lock clicked and the door opened.

"Sweetie?" Irene called. "That you?"

It would be one thing if Clara had no idea what Irene did to earn money, but she was fully aware and this was not the first conversation of this sort she had walked into.

"Did I hear someone calling you a whore?"

"Who's she?" the woman asked, clearly miffed.

 _You're a rude one, aren't you?_ Irene chided silently. 

"This is my girlfriend, Clara. Clara, this is the Queen's niece. Her sister was one of my clients."

At that moment, Irene couldn't say which she was more proud of: the look on the woman's face as she gaped at tiny, adorable Clara who was supposedly dating this blackmailing adulteress, or Clara's vaguely amused, yet nonchalant expression.

But then again, for someone who's met the wife of an American President weep at the feet of her girlfriend, the Queen's niece might not be as big of a deal.

"How do you do?" she greeted.

 _AN: Hi! It's good to be back ^ ^ Dunno what to say about this, other than that yes, Irene is dating Harriet's ex. Also we're going to get John's POV next. Thanks to AverageScript for the beta!_


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson was a progressive man. While his parents preferred tradition and staying in the countryside after getting married during uni, he moved to the city. Instead of getting an office job, he went to medical school to become a doctor. He wanted new, he wanted to learn, he wanted _plot_. He found several girlfriends, experimented with one man in uni but then decided to stay far, far away in case it might not be just experimentation and settled down with another girlfriend before the war. When it started, John was one of the first to enlist.

John Watson was done getting shot at.

It hurt, most of all. The getting-shot bit, that is.

He wasn't sure exactly how it had happened. One moment, he was in the medical tent, the next moment there was a bullet in his shoulder.

One moment there was a loud _crack_ , the next moment John was on the floor, clutching his shoulder.

The Afghans had managed to hit the only doctor in the area, and only the doctor. Everyone else had gone unscathed.

And as he was the only doctor in the area, he had to be sent to a real hospital. The irony hit him hard- a doctor, supposedly not in the middle of combat, the only one injured and having to be under the care of other doctors for it. At the hospital, it was discovered that his hands shook and he was paranoid and nervous and unfit for combat. Technically, he was never in combat, but still. It sort of hurt.

Home.

England.

Was that really even home?

After that he was healed even more and had gone through physical therapy and went to a therapist, a proper one who asked probing, annoying questions and charged him at a discounted rate thanks to insurance and his military experience but still left a huge hole in his wallet

Later he was offered a cane, even though it wasn't his leg that was shot. His shoulder had taken the brunt of the injury but it was okay because having a cane and a bad leg was a better reason to stay home than a shot-up shoulder, even if that excuse was just for him. Because the cane was, well, he didn't know what purpose it had, only that it made him feel inadequate to go back to battle and he otherwise felt _fine_ , but he didn't, not really, and that was (or so he told himself) because he had a hurt leg and a shot shoulder. But the real reason was kind of a paradox.

It was because they wouldn't let him go back. That was why he didn't feel fine.

All because his hands shook and he was paranoid and nervous.

He was in no state to go back to the battlefield, they said, but they still gave him a medal for his efforts.

It felt like a consolation prize.

Because truth be told, he missed the battlefield. He never admitted it to himself, but he liked the excitement of it. Even if he wasn't directly involved, it was fascinating. Troops moving to the east would shoot at troops going west or north or south and it was a bit like a war game, only people would really die. And he would help them not die. He would give them medicine and a bed and stitches and surgery or whatever they needed and they would go back and shoot at people some more if their arm or leg wasn't too bad so they could _win_ this war, for better or for worse.

He liked being busy and he liked busy things and the battlefield was nothing if not busy. People were running around or practicing by shooting at targets and had somewhere to go or to be and he had a _place_. He was the doctor. And even though they said that military life was 95% boredom and 5% terror, in John's case there was a lot less of both, being the doctor. There was always someone to treat, someone with a broken leg or sprained wrist or bullet in the chest. The excitement was kind of routine, but it was good routine. Even if it was routine, it wasn't _dull_ routine.

Then at night, when everyone was supposed to not be drinking but drinking anyway, John had stories to tell and jokes to laugh at and he _belonged_. He was the Doctor _Watson who had taken that bullet out of Sandy's arm, remember? Wow, I bet he's got some great stories to tell. What's the weirdest injury you've come across?_

So when he did go back to England, he went without an address or job or place in life. He had nowhere to be and nowhere to go to, lost and alone, and worst of all, maybe because of all that, he felt empty.

He couldn't go back to Harry, not that he knew where she lived. She drank too much and he didn't think he could take it, living with her. Not to mention the fact that she and her wife had divorced.

Definitely not his parents. It wasn't like he was twenty. And he wouldn't be able to stand the awkward and condescending help-John-he's-broken attitude.

So he rented a tiny flat in the outskirts of the city, and got a job as a local doctor. He treated sprains and knife scrapes and the occasional broken bone and no bullets. It was very paperwork, very how-do-you-do and not enough heroism and far too suburban. _Emergency_ there meant that Charles got shot and he had to operate _now_. _Emergency_ here meant that Billy fell out of a tree.

He hated it.

It came to his attention that he was really missing something when he woke up from one of his nightmares. They were regular occurrences, and were about the war. Afghanistan was hard, hot, dry and tiring but one thing it provided was excitement. Purpose.

He woke up, the sound of bullets still singing in his ears and grabbed a handgun that he slept with.

Old habits die hard.

Of course, the room was empty. There was no midnight raid, much less spies or fighting or anything at all. The room was completely still and it struck him that that stillness _hurt_.

"Damn," he muttered out loud. It was pitch black and he had just woken up from a nightmare and the _guns_ and the _shouting_ and the _screaming_ still echoed in the silence around him and all he wanted was for it to _stop_ , oh god, why wouldn't it just leave him?

He turned on the light, illuminating a tiny bedroom. He checked his watch. 5:30 AM. Well, he couldn't sleep now.

He opened his laptop. **_John H Watson_** , the blog title seemed to scream. The rest of the page was completely blank- just those three words, a short biography ( _I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan_ )- so thirteen words, really, and his picture against a "calming" green and white background. His therapist wouldn't be happy. She wanted him to record what happened to him. _Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you_ , she had said.

 _Nothing happens to me_ , he had replied.

He had been walking for about two hours around London when one of his college mates found him. It wasn't that he _disliked_ Mike Stamford. In fact, in another universe perhaps, they could have been good friends. This was not another universe. There was always _that person_ , who no one had any reason to dislike but disliked anyway. Mike was that person.

"John! John Watson!" he exclaimed. John's first thought was _who?_ His confusion must have shown on his face because Mike quickly filled him in.

"Stamford," he clarified as he trotted over. "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

 _Wow_ , John thought. _He really let himself go_. Instead, he forced a smile.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike," he mumbled. He offered his hand in a more polite greeting. "Hello. Hi."

"I know!" he continued, grinning. "I got fat!" _No kidding_ , John thought. He quickly erased the thought from his head.

" _No,_ " John said instead. It probably didn't sound very convincing.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" he continued jovially, ignoring John's terrible lie. _God_ , John thought. _Will he ever stop talking?_

He cleared his throat. "I got shot," he said. Mike at least had the grace to look embarrassed. 

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "Want to go for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," John said back.

John didn't know why he agreed, why he didn't make some excuse. It was about a five minute walk to the nearest coffee shop and his shoulder or his leg- he couldn't even tell at this point, and he didn't care- was screaming for him to stop, or to slow down. Mike was a fast walker. John was not.

"You still at Bart's then?" John asked. If there was one thing he knew, it was small talk.

"Teaching now," Mike said. A grin spread across his face. "Bright young things, like we used to be. _God_ , I hate them!" He laughed and John chuckled along. "What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

John scratched the back of his head. "Can't afford to live in London on an Army pension."

"Ah, and you can't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I knew!"

"I'm not the John Watson you…" John stopped, slightly uncomfortable. A silence descended. His hand started shaking. He clasped it in his other, trying to get it to stop. Mike looked away.

"Couldn't Harry help?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Hilarious. Not to mention the fact that he'd already considered it. "Yeah, like _that's_ going to happen."

"I dunno." Mike shrugged. "Get a flatshare or something."

Even funnier. "Come on. Who'd want _me_ as a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled thoughtfully.

"What?" John asked.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," he said. John checked his watch. 9:30 AM.

"Who was the first?" John asked.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes was bored. Always bored. Solving cases were fun, but they were also ridiculously simple. He felt like comparing it to playing _Flappybird_ , or some such other stupid free-to-play mobile game, for normal people. Everything on that damnable app store, really. It made your brain mushy and slow but what he needed was a _challenge_. Solving cases didn't sharpen the mind much, but it didn't slow his mind down either.

On a separate note, Sherlock actually quite enjoyed _Flappybird_ , not that he would tell anyone. For all anyone knew, his phone was purely for cryptic text messages. Anyway, the case he had just finished should have wrapped itself up by now- the paperwork part, that is. It was a jewel thieving which he solved in 10 minutes, including the cab ride. The Scotland Yard only gave it to him when they couldn't solve it. Idiots, the lot of them. Unsurprisingly, it was one of the newer employees who got too greedy- the same one who had sounded the alarm. Should've been obvious to everyone if they weren't so damn dense. It took him only five minutes examining the evidence and the eyewitness reports to get the answer. It was practically laid out for him in the statement. Why didn't anyone else _get it_?

Still…something about the serial suicides intrigued him.

Serial suicides.

That phrase, along with the pills with the strawberry-colored speckles made him wonder.

How does one make someone kill themselves?

Hold them at gunpoint? They would die either way.

And what would the motivation be, when you could just kill them directly?

There was also no noticeable link between the victims, other than one. A stripper, an office worker with a prominent position, and an 18-year old teenager with nothing in common but the fact that they all were in London recently. Even though that link might not appeal to a lesser detective, he knew that that meant a lot. As far as he knew, anyone in London could be a potential candidate. Which meant that the murderer, or whoever was persuading them to kill themselves or making people kill themselves- would strike again, and nearby.

But he had checked every other link that he could think of, in case the police looked something over, which they usually did: common friends, shops they had visited last, appearance, wealth, schools that they had attended, employers, the doctor they went to. Nothing.

A big, fat 0.

Other than that they had all been in London.

So the suspects were narrowed down from the world to a continent. And then from a continent to a country. From a country to a city. The biggest and most famous city in the region, but a city nonetheless. A city which he fortunately happened to live in, thank god for that. With luck, he would be the next victim and he would finally understand what this was all about because if there was one thing he _hated_ , it was not understanding.

Serial suicides.

How did one make someone- someone with no previous known suicidal inclinations kill themselves?

Anyway.

He had met his future roommate John Watson just the day before and honestly couldn't wait for him to move into Baker Street. He was bored, bored, _bored_ and he needed someone or something to talk to- other than his skull, that is. Not his own. The one on the mantelpiece that he had lifted from the morgue. It wasn't like anyone would mind. Really, the only interesting thing around were the limbs in the fridge. There was still an hour left before he could properly get results, though.

John. John Watson.

An intriguing man.

John wasn't ordinary, not like other men. He tried to understand, appreciated the craft.

Lestrade tried to understand, but Sherlock guessed that he found it too hard to wrap his tiny little mind around it all. All he cared about was the end result but John, well, the look in his eyes was enough to convince him that John was fascinated. He cared about the path he took to get to the result. John seemed to even want to learn to do it himself. John had something in his eyes which no one else had when they looked at him: admiration. Plenty of people thanked him, of course, for solving that robbery or the murder of so-and-so, but they didn't mean it. They thought they did, but they were thanking him for the end result, for a name on a sheet of paper. John didn't seem to care about the result- he was _interested._ And that interested him.

He needed John as a roommate. Not just to help pay for the flat, but also because if he had another roommate he would probably end up severely maiming them somehow in a fit of frustration because everyone else was so _stupid_ and _dull_.

That would be very problematic, because if he managed to pass it off as an accident, or finished the hypothetical roommate off and hid the body; even if he sent the roommate to the hospital: people would come asking questions. People always did. The police, even though he had helped them out so many times, would ask questions and Lestrade would look disappointed and Donavon would tell everyone, Mycroft would sigh and say something condescending and everyone would lap it up, reporters, Mummy, Daddy, everyone, because Mycroft was so successful and he wouldn't be able to take it because it wasn't his fault that other people were _so stupid_ and so _dull_. Mummy would then almost definitely cry and Daddy would shake his head and whisper something to Mummy which would make her cry some more which was _exactly_ why he needed a good roommate.

His stomach growled in annoyance. Oh. Right. Food. What a bother. He walked over to the parlor where he knew the tea and breakfast always appeared every morning. It was incredibly convenient, how it was always there in the morning and disappeared at night again only to reappear in the morning with yet more food on it. It was a mystery he would get around to solving after he solved the serial suicides.

Serial suicides.

It would be one thing if they all had suicidal inclinations and all took some convenient pill, but they all were reportedly mentally healthy, with no traces of anything that would otherwise lead to suicide and the pill was anything but conventional.

This tea was brewed wonderfully. Really, he would have to look into the magically appearing breakfast after this case. Maybe Mrs. I'm-your-landlady-not-your-housekeeper Hudson knew something about it.

The bodies were all found in some deserted area, which could be another link- but it wasn't, not really.

The one furthest from civilization was found nearly two kilometers away from where he was supposed to be. He was in a deserted office building that was scheduled to be demolished. The closest one was found about 50 meters away in a (yet again) abandoned parking lot.

Some suicide pact, perhaps? A cult?

No traces of any such activity, anywhere.

The biscuits were quite good, too. Some mysteries were best left unsolved. Maybe the breakfast wasn't worth looking into. Either way the breakfast would be there so it was okay. As long as it was there, he was happy.

 _Serial suicides._

He would think about it later.

For now, he had to clean up the flat for John.


End file.
